


Hannibal was quiet the day the stitches came out

by IAmGrahamCracked



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmGrahamCracked/pseuds/IAmGrahamCracked
Summary: After the Fall, Will and Hannibal are healing together. Will seems enthusiastic, but Hannibal's been burned by that before.





	Hannibal was quiet the day the stitches came out

Hannibal was quiet the day the stitches came out. 

He removed Will’s first, deftly lifting each loop of thread with a pair of tweezers and snipping it through. Once he was satisfied with his work, he leaned back on on the couch to let Will do the same to him. He probably could have managed on his own, but Will had offered and Hannibal hadn't turned him down. 

Once the last of the thread was gone, Will ran his hand carefully over the pink skin. Then he slid off his chair and knelt by the couch, sprawling his torso across Hannibal’s. Over the last several weeks they'd gotten comfortable with each other’s bodies out of necessity -- tending to wounds and sharing single beds -- and Will had grown accustomed to it. He loved the feel of skin on skin, the comfort and the safety. And after three years in a cell, he had to imagine Hannibal enjoyed it too. 

Except instead of carding his fingers through Will’s hair or rubbing circles on his back the way he usually would, Hannibal was still. 

Will lifted his head to look into his eyes. “We’re free,” he said. Whether from the FBI or just their stitches, he didn’t feel like elaborating.

“Indeed we are,” Hannibal murmured, eyes to the ceiling. 

Will blinked a few times and soldiered on. “We should celebrate.”

Hannibal’s eyes refocused at that. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll cook us a special meal.” He stood up, gracefully disentangling from Will, and strode out of the room, buttoning his shirt as he went. Will was left kneeling on the floor, wondering what could have gone wrong.

After getting dressed and throwing away the shreds of their stitches, Will stood in the kitchen doorway. He watched from behind as Hannibal chopped away at something on the counter, then he crept up and pressed his body flush against his. He snaked his arms around his middle and crooked his chin over his shoulder. 

Hannibal was slicing an onion. He paused. “Perhaps you’d like to cut.” he said, and lifting one of Will’s hands, he pressed the handle of the knife into it. The blade was angled awkwardly toward his stomach. 

A memory came rushing back to Will-- another gesture of openness, of trust with a blade. His body went rigid. “What are you making,” he asked. 

“Lomo Saltado,” Hannibal said, his voice not entirely even. 

“Hannibal-” Will began to whisper, but Hannibal cut him off, still facing away from him. 

“The last time I made you this dish, I trusted you completely. Or rather, I was under the impression that there was a trust between us.”

Will held completely still, selecting his words carefully. “That impression was there for me, too. For a certain part of me. I did trust you. And that part of me really did want you to trust me.” 

“By not bringing me Freddie Lounds.”

Will winced. This was not the best tactic. Carefully, slowly, he reached for Hannibal’s empty right hand with his empty left, and he pressed the knife handle to Hannibal’s palm and closed his fingers around it. He backed up half a step and gripped Hannibal by the shoulders, turning him around. Now Hannibal was facing him with the knife, in an echo of their last night before he had fled for Europe. 

Hannibal’s eyes widened just a fraction -- the significance was clearly not lost on him. 

“Neither of us is quite who he was four years ago,” Will said, making firm eye contact. “And I wasn’t the only one to hold a knife in your kitchen.” He allowed himself the tiniest of smiles, hoping to lighten the mood just a little. 

But Hannibal looked away. He still held the knife in his hand, between his stomach and Will’s. Although the point was angled in Will’s direction, he seemed hardly to know it was there. 

“Your wounds are healed,” he said, voice low.

Will opened his mouth, but decided to wait for whatever was clearly inside Hannibal to work its own way out. 

He waited. But Hannibal’s eyes only darted back to Will’s -- he seemed to think Will knew how to finish this train of thought.

“Yes,” Will nodded cautiously. “My wounds are healed. So are yours.” He paused. “This is a good thing.”

“You can leave,” Hannibal said flatly. Will startled. Hannibal raised his knife hand, but only to push its flat side against Will’s chest. Will had to reach up and grasp it so it wouldn't fall. “I still trust you, Will. I trust you with my life, despite direct evidence to the contrary. So I’ll tell you now - if you plan to turn this situation to your advantage, to turn me in, I will not fight you. I will not live free without you, Will. But if those are your intentions, then I ask you, please, to kill me instead.” He looked up to meet Will’s eyes, finally. “I will not fight you in this, either. In fact, I will welcome it.”

Will didn’t know what to say. He stood, dumbly, clutching the knife against his chest. 

“You’re a good fisherman, Will. Surely it’s easier to play the part when your very survival is at stake. Huddle for warmth. Reach out in the night to distract from the pain. Run into the darkness when the very light wishes to damn you. It’s a ruse that I’m sure comes far more easily than wrapping a corpse’s psoas muscles in butcher’s paper.” 

There were tears in Hannibal’s eyes. They hadn’t started to fall yet, but they were building themselves up with every new burst of emotion he unleashed. How long had this been brewing? How many times, when Will had felt himself overcome with a peace, with a completeness he had never known, had Hannibal been secretly amassing this resentment, this certainty that he was being had again? With a shock Will realized the symmetry of it, of finding all of a sudden that there was something sinister held back behind the perfection. Hannibal really did have a sense of style, even at his most devastated.

Will, however, was at something of a loss. What could he possibly say? His fingers flexed around the knife again, and he knew. As they caught the knife’s movement, Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. But as the blade sunk into the flesh of Will’s cheek, his surprise betrayed itself with a twitch above his mouth.

Will sawed into his new scar tissue. This cut wasn’t as deep, of course, but it was enough to hurt and certainly enough to bleed. Next he moved to the spot on his chest where Hannibal had so carefully sewn and cut away his stitches. He pressed the edge of the blade straight in, cutting clean through his shirt and raising a red line ten inches across. The line welled up and spread into the fabric.

Not breaking eye contact, he moved the knife to hover over his stomach and the scar Hannibal had left there. He started to press the point in, but Hannibal reached out and stilled his hand. 

“That one is mine,” he whispered. 

Will turned the knife handle toward him. “Then go ahead,” he said. “If you think I’ll only stay around while I’m hurt, then I can keep doing this forever.” 

Hannibal glanced down at the knife, then took it and set it down on the counter behind him. He turned to stare deeply into Will’s face. The tears had finally overflowed from his eyes. He leaned forward so their faces were nearly touching and, taking Will completely by surprise, began to lick his cheek. It was a short, delicate series of licks, tracing up Will’s right cheek to his eye. Will thought wildly that he must be after his blood, but then Hannibal moved to the other, unmaimed side of his face, licking his way up to Will's left eye where he landed something between a sweep of the tongue and an open mouthed kiss on Will’s lashes. 

He leaned back. “You were crying,” he whispered, smiling fondly. “I wanted to wipe away your tears, but thought better of it with the onion on my hands.” 

Will huffed out a laugh. “You wouldn’t want to cause me any pain, now would you Dr. Lecter?”

“Never again, Will.” Hannibal said solemnly, smile gone, ghosting his fingers above the newly opened wound on Will’s face. “Now let me wash my hands and we’ll see what you’ve done to your poor newly healed flesh.” 

He turned around to face the onion on the cutting board, now splattered with Will’s blood from the knife. He sighed. “I think we’ve had enough Lomo Saltado for one lifetime.” He looked over his shoulder and smiled again at Will. “Don’t you?”


End file.
